


Stone Cold

by paperclipbitch



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 07:48:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6648631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperclipbitch/pseuds/paperclipbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Horatio has never really thought to question why Laertes felt the need to approach him and demand a training partner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stone Cold

**Author's Note:**

> [Originally posted on LJ October 2007] Written when I was studying Hamlet for A-Level, and decided it would be super great to ship the people who don't have scenes together, because, that's me.

The second time Laertes knocks the sword from Horatio’s hand, Horatio notes the gleam in his hazel eyes and fumbles when he bends to pick the blade up again. The councillor’s son almost laughs, thin red lips curved into a smirk, locks of dark hair caught across his face. 

“I think I win,” he says, but Horatio isn’t going to acquiesce that easily, if at all, feinting right and skimming the blade over Laertes’ ribs on the left side. 

“Never,” he replies, pulling Laertes back and resting his sword against his throat.

Practise, that’s all this is. The swords are blunt, cannot draw blood, though no one could say that they’re not trying their _best_ to do so anyway, the sun dipping low over the castle grounds. 

Horatio learned to duel almost as soon as he could walk, but it matters little, because years of quiet study and following their Prince around have cost him many of the skills he thinks he should have kept. He’s almost certain that’s why he’s here with Laertes, the two of them laughing a little as though this isn’t a competition of the angriest kind, because they say Denmark will once again be at war with Young Fortinbras, and a good education is not a substitute for the ability to kill with certainty and skill. Laertes is not as good as he used to be either, and with Hamlet spending all his time following Ophelia around as though he really means it, Horatio has found himself spending hours, days with Laertes, crossing blades and trying to bring back what all their schooling has cost them.

It is getting dark, Laertes’ hair blending with the encroaching night, and Horatio pushes him forward, away.

“I believe I win,” he says, unable to stop the triumphant smile spreading across his mouth.

“Today,” Laertes replies.

\---

Laertes and Ophelia are glitteringly beautiful. Black hair, burningly dark eyes, skin like milk and laughing red mouths. Hamlet has spent a year or more praising Ophelia’s smiles into goblets of wine, hand clenched on Horatio’s sleeve and _insisting_ over and over.

It was only when he started philosophising on the colours in her hair by candlelight when there was no alcohol present at all that things became complicated. Horatio knows that Hamlet thinks he’s in love with Ophelia, and he may not notice that he isn’t until it’s far too late. Hamlet is not pragmatic enough, he thinks things through far too much. It’s a good quality in a scholar but it may ruin Ophelia before the truth reveals itself. 

Horatio knows the difference between love and lust perfectly well. He does not feel the need to blur the line, not even when Laertes pins him to the grass with the point of his sword over Horatio’s heart, knee pressed awkwardly against the inside of his thigh. Horatio merely laughs, shifts a little for the split-second of friction he can glean from this, and pushes Laertes away, conceding that he’s lost this round.

\---

He has never really thought to question why Laertes felt the need to approach him and demand a training partner. Horatio put it down to boredom, or the fact they both had enough free time (Hamlet spends his days composing sonnets to the shade of Ophelia’s eyes or else drinking with his father, and Horatio has no place in either of those worlds). Then, when Hamlet and Ophelia were laughing over a bouquet of flowers, excluding the rest of the world, Horatio wondered if perhaps it was loneliness. Mutual loneliness, shared and fought over with blunted blades. 

\---

They’re no longer confused, they know what they’re doing now. Horatio is sorely tempted to get into an argument just so he can demand a duel, then win and maybe have Hamlet congratulate him. Pay him momentary attention. 

His mental distraction gives Laertes the chance to knock his sword from his hand, and send Horatio tumbling to the ground. Breathless, he accedes defeat, as Laertes plunges the sword into the earth beside his head. 

“You cannot let your mind waver,” Laertes reminds him, but he offers Horatio a warm, slightly calloused hand anyway. 

Pulled upright, still breathing a little too hard, Horatio looks into Laertes’ deep, dark eyes, and, just for a second, prays that he _wants_ as much as he does. Their hands part, and Horatio turns away, catching his lip between his teeth as he reaches for his lost sword.

\---

It grows colder, and they battle within the castle, in draughty rooms with unlit fires and ice-cold stone that hurts when Laertes pushes Horatio into it (he pushes back, bruising Laertes’ pretty face and feeling almost gratified). It is something to do in the days before Hamlet and Horatio leave for Wittenburg, to the university, the life Horatio has almost forgotten.

He does not tell Laertes that he will be leaving soon, partially because he is afraid that Laertes will not _care_. Horatio is still firmly aware of the difference between love and lust, just as Hamlet remains hopelessly oblivious, but the lust is so uncontrollable he finds himself losing deliberately just to feel Laertes’ body against his for a few seconds.

But soon, he will leave, leave with Hamlet, and this will remain behind him, a mere folly, a wish he knew could never be fulfilled.

\---

“I go to Wittenburg tomorrow,” he says, when it can no longer be put off.

The triumphant laugh dies on Laertes’ mouth. He pushes his hair from his face, his eyes searching Horatio’s expression as though for evidence of a joke.

“You did not mention it,” he murmurs eventually, a dead little smirk flicking the corner of his lips.

“I did not think it mattered,” Horatio replies. Laertes laughs again, though it is curiously hollow now.

“No, I suppose it does not.” He indicates the sword in Horatio’s hand. “One last time, then.”

Horatio moves with the intention of winning but Laertes manages to catch his wrist and squeeze until the blade falls to the floor. His own weapon clangs on the stones a moment later and he drags Horatio close, close. His grip on Horatio’s wrist is so tight that it hurts, but Laertes’ free hand cups Horatio’s cheek, fingers brushing the ends of his blonde hair.

“You cannot leave,” he hisses so quietly that, close as they are, Horatio can barely hear him. “Tell me you will not go.”

Horatio closes his eyes.

“My lord desires it,” he responds equally softly. “I must go with the Prince.”

“Whatever Prince Hamlet wants…” Laertes sounds angry, and Horatio remembers that Ophelia is falling into some kind of trap that Hamlet isn’t even aware he’s setting. He expects Laertes to push him away, there’s tension coiled in the body too near his, he braces himself for a blow that does not come.

When he opens his eyes again, Laertes is looking at him. There’s barely any distance between them to close, Horatio feels his mouth opening slightly, an invitation. A plea. Laertes is close enough that every breath presses against Horatio’s lips and he _wants_ , he _wants_ , he _wants_. 

Footsteps sound in the hall and Horatio pulls away, unable to claim the simple kiss that he has wanted for months. Laertes has murder on his face as he turns to the door.

“Fighting again?” Hamlet asks. He looks bemused and if he notices the flush on Horatio’s cheeks and the pale fury on Laertes’ he does not mention it.

“Always.” Horatio bends to pick up his fallen blade.

“And who has won?”

“I have, my lord,” Horatio replies, as though it is obvious. 

Laertes pushes through the door without a word.

\---

At the feast in honour of Hamlet’s departure (and, to a far lesser extent, Horatio’s), Laertes does not appear. Horatio drinks too much wine and spends the next day in head-splitting agony, tasting each and every one of the bruises on his skin.

It’s not as though he _wanted_ to say goodbye.

\---

Hamlet changes when the news of his father’s death reaches them. He stops laughing, and speaking, and smiling. He becomes withdrawn and pale and tells Horatio that he must stay, not accompany him home. But Horatio cannot leave his friend in an hour of need and follows him back to Elsinore castle anyway.

The funeral is sombre and there is too much weeping. Hamlet looks a wreck at his father’s graveside, fallen into uncontrollable grieving. Horatio can think of nothing to say and so hangs back, hands pressed together as though in some form of desperate prayer. 

He thinks he can feel Laertes looking at him, but he does not look back. Now is not the time.

\---

Hamlet dances with Ophelia at his mother’s wedding, face like a thunderclap. He does not approve and Horatio watches his friend and lord with concern. Things are falling apart and yet, for the sake of the family he no longer loves, Hamlet must pretend that he approves. Horatio has watched him weep for hours, cursing and sobbing and screaming. Half-mad already and things can only get worse.

Laertes does not look happy either, seated in a corner with a goblet of wine.

“You will tell your _lord_ that he is not to go near my sister,” Laertes informs him, tight-voiced, when Horatio can no longer keep himself away. 

“He will not listen to me,” Horatio responds, sitting down. He is fairly sure that Laertes does not have the right to be so angry with him, but he barely understands this situation and the last two months have been difficult for everyone. “He says that he loves her.”

“He does not.” Laertes drinks, his mouth stains red and Horatio cannot look. “How go your studies?”

“Well.” Horatio swallows. “And yours?”

“As well as can be expected.”

The bitter awkwardness is almost more than Horatio can stand. He thought that lust could die, but it can’t. The months apart have not altered as much as he would have hoped.

“When we parted, you said that you had won.” Laertes is not looking at him. “I believe you had an unfair advantage.”

“If you desire a rematch…”

Ophelia is laughing and Horatio is sure that this cannot end well. Not with Hamlet so lost and confused and empty. This girl deserves more.

“Tomorrow, then.” Laertes sounds decided, and he leaves Horatio behind as he strides across to pull Ophelia away from Hamlet.

\---

Horatio is only partially sure that Laertes will be willing to fight him after all, but when he walks down to the usual room, Laertes is already there. The blade in his hands is sharp, and certain. Horatio would be anxious or afraid, but he predicted this and the sword in his own hands is not for practise either.

They are both fighting to win. That much, at least, is clear.

Now, it seems there are no rules. No honour, and they’re not aiming to graze. Laertes nicks Horatio’s arm, the sharp sting and swift flow of blood fills his mind with blind fury and he throws his sword aside and just punches Laertes. 

It becomes fists, tearing of cloth and instant bruising. Horatio realises, belatedly, that Laertes believes him to be in love with Hamlet. It is plausible. Hopelessly wrong; but plausible. He laughs aloud in spite of himself; and is punished by being slammed into the wall hard enough to hurt.

This time, Laertes actually kisses him, without preamble, without hesitation. Mouth open and certain and Horatio thinks he feels him tremble. Just a little. Just enough. 

\---

Tattered and torn, they break apart. Horatio’s lips sting and he thinks they might be cut at the corner, imprint of Laertes’ knuckles against his cheek. He has been punished for a crime he knows he hasn’t committed, and that isn’t fair, but Laertes is red-mouthed and black-eyed and Horatio is not going to tell him that Hamlet was never his to want and so subsequently he never did. Jealousy makes things far more interesting.

“I believe you are trying to distract me,” he murmurs, the stone is cold against his spine and Laertes’ beautiful face is all marked and twisted with anger and need. “I am still here to win.”

Winning got forgotten a long time ago but there is still a lot of misplaced anger in here. They need an outlet.

Laertes uncurls his fingers from the nape of Horatio’s neck. He is almost smirking, hair falling across his face and Horatio wants to forget this stupid competition between them and settle for something different. But he is pragmatic, and he knows there is no choice.

They still do not pick up their forgotten swords.

\---

The flagstones are cold when Horatio is pushed face-first into them, air rushing out of his lungs and Laertes twisting his arm up behind him and pinning him to the floor. Laertes holds him down; Horatio opens his mouth against freezing stone when the other man leans down a little and he feels just how badly Laertes wants him against his lower back. 

“You might as well admit defeat.” Laertes is half-laughing, breath catching in strange places. Horatio is still not entirely sure what is happening here, but reason has quickly become superfluous, and instead, he does something swift and too brutal and then it is Laertes on his back on the floor. Horatio settles himself comfortably on Laertes’ hips, leaning forward to grip his arms and hold them down.

Laertes’ dark hair pools on the stone, his eyes are glinting, breath coming in uneven gasps. He shifts a little and they both suck air in through their teeth, sharp friction and Laertes’ red, red mouth opens. There is a moment of silence and fury, then the tension flows out of Laertes’ body, he lies weak beneath Horatio.

“Finish it,” he hisses out. Horatio is uncertain for a moment whether Laertes wants him to kiss him or kill him, or if it’s all the same in the end. He leans down, carefully taking care to still hold Laertes’ wrists to the floor. His blonde hair tumbles from where he has tied it, brushing against Laertes’ face, the lightest of touches. “Finish this,” Laertes orders, desperate hunger screaming in his eyes. “Finish this now.”

But the door opens. Horatio doesn’t let go, but pushes upright a little more, pressing down with his hips just because he likes the way it makes Laertes’ eyes shiver closed.

“Still fighting?” Hamlet’s voice is slow and tired, as is everything he does these days, but there is still the smallest spark of amusement.

“Always,” Horatio replies peaceably, letting go of Laertes with reluctance, and getting to his feet. Laertes pulls himself upright, but there is no chance of him storming out this time. Not anymore.

“And who has won now?” Hamlet asks, ghost of a smile on his lips. 

Horatio very carefully does not look at Laertes.

“I believe, my lord,” he says, “We decided that it is a draw.”


End file.
